I continue to be shocked and amazed by this child of mine. Years ago, when Monkey started orthodontia, his sensory issues were such that he gave up food and drink for about a week because it hurt and he is stubborn. So I was ready---as ready as I could be, anyway---for this weekend to be utter hell. It almost feels like I shouldn't say it out loud (lest I jinx it), but so far... so good. It's kind of a study in the weirdness of his brain, really. We always say he either feels things way more or way less than a neurotypical person, but then, of course, the last few months of hell were (we...
The surgery was quick and his initial confusion and anger afterward was mercifully short-lived. He's talking, drinking, and absolutely loving that he can play as much Nintendo as he wants. (Puppy says he just LOVES Pokemon Ranger, and also that tonsils and adenoids and tubes are stupid. Now get him some more apple juice!) We'll go home in a few hours. I already feel better.
You may have noticed things are a bit... sparse... around here, lately. Ahem. There's only so many times and so many ways I can write "My child has LOST HIS FOOL MIND and life is WEARING ME DOWN" before I just back away from the computer and curl up in the corner for a while. There have been good days and bad days. Rather than building up a thicker skin and greater patience, I find that my ability to deal gracefully with Monkey's rough periods is eroding. This has been dragging on for months, now, and my reaction when he's busy morphing into Angry Delusional Hulkboy starts with about a...
Me, upon hearing that we are finally going to DO SOMETHING to rid Monkey of this insidious plague of yuck: Oh, THANK GOD. Monkey, upon hearing that he will be relieved of a few extra parts: Great, why don't you just remove ALL of my organs! Apparently you think I'm not USING THEM or anything! (Yes, Monkey is furious with me. I can live with that.) (Friday. Life begins again on Friday, I hope.)
One of the things I truly struggle with, when it comes to Monkey---still---is that he is pretty much a black belt master in rationalization. He has an answer, a justification, an explanation, for EVERYTHING. Most of the time his conclusions make no sense whatsoever. They come off as elaborate, implausible lies invented by someone who is the world's worst liar. I often look at him and wonder HOW someone so smart can think that what he's saying makes any sense at all. But then I (slowly, and with many internal "DUH!"s) realize that this is what life with Asperger's is like for him; so many...
I meant to come back yesterday and talk a little bit about what the ENT told us; we are reaching the end of the "first line" treatment plan for Monkey's infection, and while I adore the ENT, I think he was unprepared for Monkey's reaction when he said, "Well, if this doesn't work, we go to surgery. Oh, don't worry, we just drill a little hole in your ear and---" Yeah. Monkey---shockingly!---is not interested in letting the good doctor take a drill to his head! Go figure! He voiced his displeasure with this plan, yes indeed. Basically, we can't SEE the infection in the mastoid/sphenoid areas...
The holiday break is over, and we are back on the specialist merry-go-round in the continuing saga of Monkey And The Head Infection That Actually Isn't Just Autism, Thanks. More on that tomorrow, just as soon as I figure out what number chapter we're up to and I stop hitting my head against the desk. But yesterday we arrived at the ENT's office for a visit, and the doc was kind enough to offer Monkey the big glass jar of lollipops right at the main reception desk, before we even began. There was a moment there when I worried this was going to end badly---the doctor, being playful, was moving...
There is a part of me that feels like my return to therapy has mostly been a few months of "Oh hey, we thought maybe my kid was dying, but apparently he's not, so I guess I should be fine now" sprinkled in amongst random chatting and just... kind of... time-wasting. I mean, I'm happy to sit around and chitchat, but not when I'm paying for it. And not when I have other things I'd rather do, and actual issues I'd like to address. So this week I went in and after about ten minutes of catch-up chitchat I said, "So, listen, I need a plan. And goals and stuff. Attainable objectives. I MADE A...
It seems wrong, somehow, to call you Small Boy when you are all of eleven whole years old, but I'm not ready to give it up. I'm not ready to stop seeing the shadow of the toddler version of you---all dimples and roundness and wide grin---every time I look at you, either. Sorry. And I am definitely not ready to give up your standard retort to "Hello, Small Boy," which is---of course---"Hello, Medium Mommy." Ten felt like a milestone to me. Eleven feels like a ticking time bomb; the countdown to middle school has begun, and you are still my small boy, still so far away from being ready for...
